


i'd suffer hell if you'd tell me

by TheLittleSongbird



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Caleb Widogast-centric, Episode 109 spoilers, Episode 110 Speculation, F/M, I personally think it's still more mature than explicit but better to be safe than sorry, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, POV Caleb Widogast, Past Relationship(s), Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, hints of widofjorester but not enough to tag the relationship, rating change for chapter 2, second chapter is heavy on the blumentrio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26519668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLittleSongbird/pseuds/TheLittleSongbird
Summary: "He idly remembers stepping into the foyer, the warm rays of the sun casting shadows and colors across the wood floor. He remembers refusing to take his coat off when asked by the doorman. He needed his components with him at all costs. He remembers being told which way to follow to reach the dining room.He didn’t need the directions.He can’t remember how long the walk took, whether it was a few seconds or a few centuries. There were two of him in that moment — the eager sixteen year old boy, having been summoned to Master Ikithon’s home for a private lesson — and the scared man that boy grew up to be, haunted by his past and the actions that had led him straight into the belly of the beast."
Relationships: Astrid/Eodwulf/Bren Aldric Ermendrud, Astrid/Eodwulf/Caleb Widogast, Jester Lavorre/Caleb Widogast
Comments: 10
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to get this out before the episode made it canon divergent. There's a second part, but there was no way I was going to finish before the new episode dropped, so have half a fic until I can post the second part (which is going to lean heavy into the Bren/Astrid/Wulf dynamic, so if that's not your cup of tea, feel free to skip it.)

“We don’t have to go in.”

Ikithon’s mansion looms above them, the beams of the half-timbered house stained a deep burgundy. The colors of the stained glass windows shine in the light of magic hour, and he knows all too well the foyer will be bathed in reds and golds from the setting sun. It’s beautiful in it’s uniformity, the home standing as a representation of the power and glory contained within its walls.

But Caleb knows that looks can deceive.

His hands are shaking, and he curls them into fists by his side to hide them the best he can. For the first time in months, he longs for the comfort of the bandages and wraps. Something to hide the tremors and scars. Something to hide his past.

His arms itch.

There’s a tug on his sleeve, and Caleb glances over to see Jester, her arm wrapped around his own, her free hand clutching his wrist. She looks up with a crease between her brows, her eyes shadowed in worry. It’s the most physical touch they’ve had since Nicodranas, since Rumblecusp. Her hand is cool to the touch. 

Caleb feels like he’s burning.

She’s wearing the dress from Travelercon, the gossamer chiffon swirling around her frame, beaded moons twinkling around her collarbone as if they were part of her tattoo. She looks like a goddess. The light blue against her skin appears nearly white, and he can’t help but think of other events where Jester would wear white. He immediately chastises himself for the thought.

_That’s not for you, Widogast. Don’t you dare._

“We can just turn around and go back to Nicodranas,” she reasons, the hand around his wrist wriggling and pulling at his closed fist, as if trying to lace her fingers with his. Caleb tightens his grip. “Fuck Ickythong, you know? Let’s just got home and eat fish and chips instead, Cayleb.”

He wishes he could. He wishes he was anywhere but here, standing at the doorstep of the one man he fears above all else. He wishes he was floating on the ocean, his skin burning under the hot Nicodrani sun. He wishes he was listening to the Ruby serenading the Nein at the Lavish Chateau. He wishes he was dancing with Jester, sober this time. Dancing because he can, dancing because he _wants to_. He wishes. He wishes. He wishes.

Caleb pulls his hand free from Jester’s, leaning away from her touch and stepping towards the front door. He doesn’t look back at her, instead catching Fjord’s gaze at the back of the group. Fjord nods in return and steps up next to Jester. 

He had pulled Fjord aside the night before, after everyone had gone to bed and asked him, pleaded him to keep Jester as far away from Ikithon and the others as possible. 

“Of course, but you know she’s gonna be stubborn about it.” he had said. “Jester’s real protective of the whole group, you know she’s not going to back down if your old schoolmates threaten you.”

Caleb pinched his nose. “It’s not about her. It’s about what Trent might do if he… I told you a while ago that these people will do whatever they can to get to me. That means hurting you. Hurting the Nein. I won’t let that happen.”

“I don’t understand. You say we’re all in danger, but Jester…” His brows had furrowed for a moment, and then his eyes widened in understanding.

Caleb couldn’t run. He saw the realization on Fjord’s face with stark clarity. 

“Oh.”

“Fjord. You can’t say anything. Please.”

Fjord held his gaze, and Caleb saw nothing but pity. He didn’t want to be pitied. He didn’t deserve it. “Alright. I’ll keep Jester away from them.”

“ _Gut_.” He nodded and turned away, stepping closer to the stairs of the Chateau.

“But Caleb,” Fjord’s voice had cut through the quiet, halting Caleb on the steps. “You need to tell her. After all this is done. She would want to know.”

Caleb takes a deep breath, staring at the dark oak door in front of him. If nothing else comes of this dinner, he knows that at least Jester would be safe. Fjord had promised him that much.

A cold breeze blows through the streets of the Candles, chilling the Nein to the bone. It reminds him of another lifetime, of sneaking into adjacent alleys to block the wind from scattering their books and loose sheafs of paper. Of huddling between two warm bodies to stave off the cold until they had the courage to face the biting wind again, their cheeks and noses red from the rush of blood. 

Now he stands on the steps of what used to be his second home. Alone with his back to the wind.

Caleb knocks on the door.

\---

He can’t remember how he got here.

The door had opened, and there had been a servant standing on the other side — a different one, a new one from the last time he walked these halls — and had ushered the Nein in, welcoming them to Master Ikithon’s home. 

He idly remembers stepping into the foyer, the warm rays of the sun casting shadows and colors across the wood floor. He remembers refusing to take his coat off when asked by the doorman. He needed his components with him at all costs. He remembers being told which way to follow to reach the dining room.

He didn’t need the directions. 

He can’t remember how long the walk took, whether it was a few seconds or a few centuries. There were two of him in that moment — the eager sixteen year old boy, having been summoned to Master Ikithon’s home for a private lesson — and the scared man that boy grew up to be, haunted by his past and the actions that had led him straight into the belly of the beast.

The double doors to the dining room opened.

Astrid smiled behind them.

“Hallo, Bren. It’s good to see you.”

He nods. Doesn’t speak. He doesn’t know if he has a voice anymore. He feels like he left it back in Nicodranas.

Jester steps forward and sidles up beside him, Fjord following close behind with a put upon face. “Hi! You must be Astrid, I’ve heard _so much_ about you!” She shoves her hand towards Astrid in greeting, a smile plastered on her face.

Astrid takes her hand and shakes it. “Oh. Well, I hope nothing terrible. And you are?”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m Jester.” He can hear her accent lilting even more as she answers cheerfully. Her accent always exaggerates more when she’s forcing herself to be kind. Or when she’s lying. 

“Jester. It is very nice to meet you. All of you,” Astrid turns to the rest of the Nein and smiles warmly towards them. “If you please, Master Ikithon is waiting for us. Bren,” she reaches out to him, and out of instinct, he loops her arm around his, allowing her to guide him further into the dining room.

Ikithon’s oak table stretches the length of the room, ten chairs set out precisely around the perimeter. Two seats are already taken. 

Trent sits at the head of the table, his fingers steepled in front of him, his sharp gaze cast at the door as the Nein make their way into the room. Two seats to his left sits a younger man, the same age as Astrid, tall and broad, his dark hair kept short. Eodwulf.

Astrid guides him towards the table. As they approach Ikithon, she gives his a comforting squeeze on his arm before releasing it, circling around the head of the table to sit to Trent’s immediate right. The seat to Trent’s left, next to Eodwulf, is empty. 

Ikithon gestures to the seat. “Bren. Thank you for accepting my invitation. Sit, please.”

“Caleb…” he hears behind him, and there’s so much caution in Beau’s voice that for a moment, he feels relieved. Relieved that he doesn’t have to suffer this reunion by himself. But he knows he cannot refuse. Not this early in their game.

Bren sits beside Ikithon.

The Nein fill in the rest of the seats -- Beau at the opposite head, Caduceus and Yasha flanking her. Bren knows she needs to place herself with the most room to see everyone, keep track of Master Ikithon’s every move. It’s a smart play, but Bren can’t help the yawning loneliness of Beau’s absence beside him. Veth takes the seat on the opposite side of Eodwulf, the closest she could get to Bren without demanding Eodwulf switches with her. He wouldn’t put it past Veth to ask. He’s glad she doesn’t. 

Fjord pulls the seat next to Astrid from the table, but before he can sit, Jester launches herself into the seat instead. Bren’s eyes dart to Fjord, and the half-orc looks back at him in panic. 

_Get her away from them,_ he wants to scream, but Fjord just shakes his head, his eyes narrowed in caution, and takes the seat beside Jester. He can’t make a scene now -- doing so would give away more than his silence.

Bren’s arms itch.

Ikithon smiles. “It is nice to finally speak with the Mighty Nein in an atmosphere that is… more comforting than a battlefield. I am sorry that it took so long, the circumstances of our last meeting were less than ideal.”

“That’s kinda just how we roll,” Beau narrows her eyes and leans back in her chair. “I think the battlefield is more comfortable for us than stuffy mansions.”

“I do not doubt it. Tales of your exploits in the Empire and beyond have been lauded for some time now,” Master Ikithon turns towards Bren. Bren looks down at the table. “It’s a great boon to the Assembly that one of our own has achieved such greatness. Bren was always a model student.”

“Caleb.”

Caleb’s head snaps up. Jester crosses her arms, her face pinched in disgust at Ikithon. Ikithon smiles. “I’m sorry?”

“His name is Caleb. Not Bren.” Jester’s voice is hard, her mouth a thin line. Astrid turns her head towards Jester, then slowly looks back at Caleb, a single brow raised.

Ikithon chuckles. “My apologies. You must forgive me. Old habits seem to die hard.” 

Eodwulf looks between the group and grins, his voice switching over to Zemnian.

 _“Well, that answers one question. Doesn’t it, Astrid?”_ Astrid glares playfully back at Eodwulf, her lips pursed.

Caleb’s arms itch. He clears his throat.

“You said there were things you wished to discuss, Master Ikithon. With us, with the Nein. We are here at your behest, after all.” Ikithon’s eyes flash away from Jester -- _yes, good. Stop looking at her_ \-- and turns to address the rest of the Nein.

“Of course. Let us discuss business, shall we?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten episodes later and I finally finished it! I wanted to at least get one WIP finished before starting up a new one (and 118 definitely has my mind reeling), and I thought this one would be faster to finish than In a Week. That was before I ended up writing twice as much as I intended, but oh well.
> 
> Please check the tags, we're going full Blumentrio in this chapter.

Sleep doesn’t come. He didn’t really expect it to.

Caleb sits in that chair, the one stained with imaginary blood, _his blood_ , for two hours, the smell of rotted hay and iron assaulting his senses. It’s a familiar smell, almost welcome in a way. He was getting too comfortable with life outside of Rexxentrum, outside of his circle of Astrid and Eadwulf. Outside of Trent’s watchful gaze.

His arms itch.

He waits in Ikithon’s room for another hour, but sleep still doesn’t grant him mercy. The cold isn’t quite right -- it doesn’t pierce to the bone the way it should, the way he remembers from so many years ago. He’ll have to make sure to change that the next time he creates the Tower, make sure that it feels just right. Frustrated, he rises from his chair and grabs his coat from the floor, careful to maintain as much quiet as possible as he descends down the Tower, closing the passage to the eighth floor as he passes.

Caleb steps out of the wardrobe, the smell of dried meat hitting his nose as he crosses the threshold back into the small room he rented for the night. The amber glow of the Tower illuminates at his back, a constant reminder of what he has, what he’s made for himself. The family he has made his goal to protect, sleeping soundly. 

He knows he should turn back around, go back in the Tower and try to block out the memories of Trent’s words from their dinner. Try to study to clear his mind, wake Beauregard up to go over her theories about Aeor to drown out the constant intrusive thoughts that flood his mind.

But he’s always had a bad habit of letting things go.

He heads out of the room, quietly descending the stairs into the main tavern. The barkeep, different from the one who greeted them, is slowly nodding off. Caleb isn’t entirely surprised -- it’s nearly one in the morning, after all. He wraps his scarf once more around his neck to shield his face from the wind, and opens the door, careful to not make a sound. 

The streets of Rexxentrum are largely silent this late at night -- most of the shops and inns in the Mudtop Ward close early, save for a few taverns. There are just enough lanterns outside to keep him from fumbling blindly in the dark, but Caleb thinks that he wouldn’t even need the light. His feet know the path instinctually, having walked it for years a lifetime ago.

He buries his hands in his coat pockets as he walks, gaze set on the cobblestones in front of him. His mind is everywhere and nowhere all at once -- Ikithon’s words echoing in his head. He lets his feet carry him without thought, through the Mudtop Ward into Vigil’s Circle, into the Shimmer Ward, the crackled cobblestone path transforming underneath into meticulously placed flagstones. The wind shrieks through the alleyways, cold and familiar, the kind of cold that was missing from his room in the Tower. Caleb makes a mental note of it. He looks up to check his surroundings, only to find that his muscle memory has brought him to the edge of the Candles, the eight mage towers looming over him.

He shouldn’t be surprised. In the end, he was always going to end up here. 

Candlelight flickers in the window of Astrid’s home, even this late at night. Caleb stands on the stoop of her door for a good minute, his fist raised to knock. His pulse thrums loudly in his ears, fully aware of the risk he’s taking in coming back here, alone, so close to the man that means to… what? What could Ikithon gain from Caleb -- Caleb, whose only immediate goal was Ikithon’s swift and bloody removal? Surely the Assembly wouldn’t simply place him in charge if he took Trent out -- so why was he so comfortable with the idea of dying at Caleb’s hands? What was his endgame? 

The door opens before his fist hits the wood. Caleb squints in the light spilling out onto the snow-frosted cobblestones.

“You came back.” 

Eodwulf’s mouth forms a thin line across his face, his eyebrows raised in surprise. His jacket has been removed, as well as his Assembly issued jerkin; the sleeves of his slate grey tunic are rolled to the elbows, the maze of tattoos snaking down his forearms in a dizzying pattern.

Caleb clears his throat. “Couldn’t sleep.” He looks beyond Eodwulf’s hulking form and spots Astrid standing from the table, a glass of wine in her hand. “Thought I would take a walk. Clear my head.”

Eodwulf hums and steps from the doorway. Caleb’s legs feel heavy as they cross the threshold, and a voice in the back of his head tells him that this is the point of no return. Hilariously, it sounds like Beauregard. 

Astrid places her glass on the table and smooths her skirt, a facsimile of propriety to hide the venom underneath. It’s a mask that Caleb is familiar with, one he learned to fake under Trent’s tutelage. It’s no surprise that Astrid has mastered it. Astrid smiles.

“Where are your friends? The Mighty Nein?”

Caleb’s arms itch. “Asleep. At least, I assume they are. I came alone if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Eodwulf leans against a chair and huffs. “A clever name. Was that your contribution to the group?”

“Did you hear any of them speaking Zemnian?” He doesn’t mean the bite in his tone, but the caution between Eodwulf and Astrid raises Caleb’s hackles. He doesn’t want to talk about the Nein. They already know too much.

“They’re charming, Bren. Sorry… Caleb.” His name sounds wrong in Astrid’s mouth. “Your new friends. Unexpected, but charming.”

“ _The tiefling was adorable.”_ Eodwulf chuckles, switching to their native tongue. Caleb feels ice in his veins at the mention of Jester. 

_“Did you see the way she was glaring at me, Wulf? I thought she was going to throttle me before the main course.”_ Astrid picks up her abandoned glass and drains it. 

_“She seemed perfectly kind to me, especially during our walk after dinner.”_

Astrid rolls her eyes. _“That was_ not _her being kind. That was her feeling guilty. I saw enough students ogle after you two to know what jealousy looks like.”_

Caleb thinks of Jester, her cheeks flushed purple, as she apologized for her treatment of Astrid over dinner. How she wasn’t being genuine in her compliments, how she was acting like a “mean girl”. Was that jealousy? And if it was, why would she be jealous of Astrid of all people?

He resists the urge to itch his arms. _“If I remember correctly, you had plenty of suitors yourself, Astrid.”_

Astrid smiles and gestures nonchalantly at her face, the burn scar peeking through the curtain of her hair. _“Not so many with this.”_

Caleb’s stomach tightens, the memory of smoke thick in his lungs. “Astrid--”

 _“No. I don’t blame you, Bren. Caleb.”_ She strides across the room, her hands reaching out to Caleb in comfort. She cradles his head in her hands, and instinctually, his shoulders relax, his eyes squeezing shut in repulsion. Repulsion for himself, repulsion for his actions. “ _You were sick. I reached out because I thought I could save you. It’s not your fault.”_ Her hands are warm, warm, warm, and Caleb wants to drown in it. He leans into her touch as her fingers card through his hair with the gentleness of their youth. “Your hair has gotten long, _schatz_.” Caleb opens his eyes to meet Astrid’s own, deep brown and comforting.

“Astrid,” he starts, but is unsure of what to say. He doesn’t know why he’s come here, why he still feels drawn to these people that he used to love. His mind is a tangled mess -- his fears of Ikithon, his desperate hope to save Wulf and Astrid, his fucked up, hopeless feelings for Jester. He feels fire in his veins, waiting to ignite and swallow everything he ever loved whole.

Dull footsteps cross the room, and Eodwulf leans in towards Caleb and Astrid, his chest a solid line of warmth against Caleb’s back. “Astrid sent for me after your last visit. She was so overwhelmed that you had returned to us, so full of hope that you had come home to stay,” he trails his large hand over Caleb’s hip, causing his breath to hitch. “It was the first time we made love in years. But it wasn’t the same without you. Stay. Please.”

Caleb shakes his head, his hands shaking as Eodwulf gently guides one to curl around his own neck. “I can’t. You both know I can’t.” 

“Is it because of them? Because of her?” Astrid’s eyes search Caleb’s face, her jaw clenched and mouth thin. Her eyes shine in the candlelight. “Tell me what you want, Caleb, and I will give it to you.”

He kisses her. 

It’s a compulsion he can’t refuse, like muscle memory, like a time loop he cannot leave. In the end, they were always going to end up here, tangled in each other’s mess. Astrid’s lips are soft and warm, and Caleb could almost pretend they’re still sixteen, before the torture, before the test, before he broke. He raises his free hand to the back of her neck and pulls her closer, his palm skating over the marred skin, his arms itching. She bites hard on his bottom lip before licking her way into his mouth, and it jolts a groan from Caleb. _Yes_ , he thinks, _punish me. Hurt me for what I did to you. The mess I made of all of us. I don’t deserve kindness. Hurt me the way_ he _taught us to._ Eodwulf crowds closer to the two of them, the stubble on his chin grazing Caleb’s neck where his scarf has come loose. Caleb’s head is blissfully blank, warm, and white, and he nearly misses the shiver of magic as it surrounds Astrid’s form, the smell of ozone filling his senses. 

Dazed, Caleb’s eyes flutter open, but instead of brown, they meet violet.

Jester stares back at him, her eyes sparkling in the candlelight, her lips breaking into a smile. Her thumbs caress Caleb’s cheekbones, and his breath catches. Her hands are so warm and the smile is all wrong -- sad and guarded. His whole body shivers and he squeezes his eyes shut, his heart hammering in his ears.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice quaking in the quiet room.

“Is this what you want, Caleb?” and it sounds _wrong_. Astrid’s voice is gentle, earnest. It’s the one thing she can’t alter, and Caleb keeps his eyes shut because he can’t see, can’t _think_ about Astrid’s voice coming out of Jester’s body. “Because I can give that to you, if you wanted.” There’s another shift of magic from Eodwulf, and then there are _tusks_ grazing the back of his neck, and Gods above, Caleb tastes bile in his throat. He knows he’s a fool, he always has been. But he didn’t think he was so transparent that Eodwulf had caught onto the desire he had refused to acknowledge even to himself.

“We were watching you during dinner, s _chatz,”_ Eodwulf whispers in his ear, and the hand on his hip trails further up, claws that weren’t there before catching on the wool of his coat. “It was hard not to watch you. And it was a comfort, to see that you’re consistent in your affections.”

Caleb’s hands are shaking. His arms itch. The room is too small and too big at the same time. 

The worst part of it all, the part that disgusts him the most is that he _wants this_. It would be so easy to forget, disappear into the fantasy, and take whatever they’re offering. Kiss Astrid and pretend she’s Jester, take the affection he can never have, the love he doesn’t deserve. He wants to run. He wants to stay. He wants to fall into bed with familiar hands grasping at his coat. He wants to explore planes of blue freckles and scars upon a valley of green. 

He wants to scratch his fucking arms.

“Please,” he repeats, forcing himself to look upon the facsimile of Jester’s face, his breath ragged, “Astrid, please. Not like this.”

“I can be her, for you.” And she sounds so sincere, her stolen eyes shining with unshed tears. “I don’t mind, Caleb. I really don’t.”

He leans his forehead against hers. “Not Caleb. I don’t want to be Caleb tonight. Astrid, I’m begging you.” 

“Okay,” she whispers, and her body shimmers once more. Her eyes turn to brown. Her skin fades from blue, the burn scar stark against her pale face. “It’s okay. I thought you might like -- shh, it’s okay,” A thumb runs along his cheek, and he startles at the moisture that she flicks away. Astrid cradles his face in her hands. “What do you want, Bren? Tell me.”

Bren looks up into her eyes, soft and warm. He wants to drown in them.

“I want you. Both of you.”

A smile cracks across her face, and when she takes his hand, leading him to the stairs, Bren sees a memory of that childhood excitement, the three of them sixteen and sneaking off to his and Wulf’s dorm room. Eodwulf follows them up the stairs, pulling Bren’s scarf and jacket as they ascend and leaving them abandoned on the banister. Bren pulls Astrid close and kisses her hard, and she whines in response, fumbling blindly at the straps of his book holster. 

“ _A clever design, liebling_ ,” she teases in their mother tongue, “ _Do you know how handsome you look with these? You’ll have to keep them on next time.”_ Bren wants to laugh at the thought of there being a next time, and yet his heart skips at the thought. To think that he didn’t fuck everything up, that Astrid and Eodwulf still love him and want him to stay overwhelms him, smothers him. 

He kisses Astrid’s neck and cups her breast over her chemise, pulling another moan from her. The door clicks shut behind them, and Bren’s holsters are peeled off his back, landing on the floor with a dull _thunk_. Warm hands trail the length of his back, large and calloused from spellwork. Bren reaches behind him to grasp at Eodwulf, only to find bare skin where he expects woolen trousers. Wulf forms a solid line at his back and ruts forward, pulling a gasp from Bren at the hard length pressing against his backside. 

It’s muscle memory to strip their clothes off, to tangle fingers in each other's hair, to trail kisses along one another’s necks and breasts and hips. To fall into a bed that finally fits all three of them instead of the tiny dorm room bunks, to gasp against Astrid’s lips as Eodwulf’s oiled fingers work him open. They fit together like jagged puzzle pieces, and Bren thinks they were always meant to end like this, his head between Astrid’s thighs, Eodwulf moving in him at a torturously slow pace. Bren was always the most clever and charming of the three of them -- it was only right that his tongue would be talented in every way. 

“ _Gods, your mouth is still perfect, Bren. She doesn’t know what she’s missing, your little tiefling.”_ Astrid gasps as Bren adds his fingers to his ministrations. 

Her words leave him shivering, and he groans against her clit when Eodwulf finally hits his prostate, his grip on Bren’s hips tightening as he angles to hit it again and again. The room is warm, the smell of sweat and firewood surrounding them as they move frantically. Astrid's legs shake in orgasm as he suckles on her clit, his fingers wet as he coaxes her through. She pushes his face away as she comes down, her eyes half-lidded and looking sated. Bren reaches for her, but he’s pulled back against Eodwulf’s chest, a hand wrapping around his throat, grounding and possessive and _gods_ this is exactly what he needed. Bren’s eyes roll back and his cock twitches, red and angry and leaking pre-come. His head is blissfully empty and he knows it’s all kinds of fucked up, crawling back to the ones he had left behind. He doesn’t deserve the kindness and the trust of the Nein, he doesn’t deserve the love of Jester or Fjord. This is what he deserves. Three lost and broken children desperately seeking meaning, seeking warmth.

Bren is on fire and he craves the burn. 

Astrid reaches for his neglected cock as Eodwulf stills inside him, and she tosses a lazy smile his way. Wulf’s hand tightens against his windpipe, and Bren is falling, coming with a broken sob, shaking in Wulf’s arms as he pulls them both onto the bed beside Astrid. 

They shiver in the open air, the loss of adrenaline leaving them cold and grasping for the quilt to cover their naked bodies. Eodwulf’s thumb rubs circles along Bren’s hip bone as Astrid trails lazy kisses down the length of his neck, his collarbone, his chest. He feels heady and boneless, the silence around them settling over their tired forms.

 _“Is it true?”_ he asks to the air, “ _What he said about molding me to take over for him? About you two following me?”_

Eodwulf’s ministrations pause, his gaze cast over Bren’s shoulder to Astrid. She doesn’t look up from Bren’s chest, her hand gently stroking through his chest hair. 

They’re quiet for a long time. 

“ _We would follow you to the ends of the earth, Bren,”_ Astrid whispers, “ _it would be like old times. You, me, and Wulf against the world. As it always should be.”_ And he wants to believe her, he wants to believe that nothing had changed between the three of them.

But there’s a chill to Astrid’s voice, and it reminds him too much of Ikithon.

“I’m going to kill him, Astrid.” She looks up into Bren’s eyes, her own dark and still. “I’ll be a traitor to the Empire.”

Eodwulf sighs against his neck. “Men die all the time. Now sleep -- we’ll talk in the morning.” He pulls Bren closer to his back, his breath slowing. Astrid pulls him in for a final, tired kiss, before turning her back to him and wrapping his arm around her waist.

Bren’s mind reels, counting backward from two hundred in his head, before slowly, like stepping into a warm bath, he falls into the depths of sleep.

\---

_Caleb? Caleb, where are you? I went to your room but you weren’t there, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to --_

_\--to wake anyone up and worry anyone, but you’re not here and I’m scared. Please tell me you’re safe. Please come home._

Caleb’s eyes snap open. He rubs the sleep from his eyes, warm arms still wrapped across his body. Jester’s voice in his head sounds distressed, and as he pulls Eodwulf’s arm off of him, he tries to count his words carefully.

“Jester -- I’m fine. I went to take a walk, that’s all. I am on my way back right now, no need to worry, _liebling_.” 

The two bodies on the bed begin to stir as Caleb climbs out, picking up his trousers and tunic from the floor. Eodwulf blinks owlishly at him. “Bren…”

“I have to go.” He tugs his pants on as swift as possible and yanks the tunic over his head. “My friends are waiting for me.”

Astrid scrambles across the bed and reaches for him. “But we just got you back. Bren, please.” Her eyes are searching his, full of pain and heartbreak. She looks so young, and Caleb aches to fall back into the comfort of her arms and feel the curves of her body again. He could convince the two of them to turn on Ikithon, he might be able to convince them to take down the entire Assembly. It would be so easy to let himself fall into their orbit again. And part of him craves it.

But the Nein need him. _Jester_ needs him.

“I’m sorry, Astrid. Wulf.” He slings his book holsters over his shoulders and grabs his boots. “I can’t leave them. Not now.”

“Because of her?” And there are tears in Astrid’s eyes. Eodwulf leans his forehead against her shoulder, staying silent. 

Caleb turns towards the door. “Because of all of them.”

He leaves them wrapped in each other’s arms without another word.

The night is even colder when he leaves the Candles, his coat still open as he wraps his scarf around his neck. It’s easy to trace his steps back to the inn and let his mind wander. For the first few blocks, he thinks of nothing but the smell of Astrid’s hearth, the feel of Eodwulf’s muscles. It’s almost laughable, how easily he fell into their arms, hoping for what? Validation? Absolution? Redemption? Logically, he knows he wouldn’t get any of that from Wulf and Astrid -- he’s not sure why he went searching for it in the first place. But there was a sick kind of comfort in knowing they were all broken in the same way, touch starved and unloved, seeking warmth in each other because they have nowhere else to go. 

It was foolish of him to visit, he knows. He wouldn’t put it past his old mentor to keep eyes on Astrid and Eodwulf, even in the comfort of their own homes. Ikithon was manipulative, calculating, but also paranoid, relying on his charisma alone to keep that fault hidden from his peers. 

But Caleb knew, because he was the same. 

Perhaps that was why Trent took him under his wing. Perhaps that was why even now, he put so much stock in Caleb as a caster. And why he was so… comfortable with the thought of dying by his hands. And for what? What would Trent gain with his death? How else was he still manipulating Caleb? What hold does he have on Astrid and Eodwulf, and could that hold be broken?

Caleb shakes the thoughts from his head, staving off the wave of nausea that hits him. 

The Mudtop Ward is dark and quiet, any remaining lanterns smothered for the evening. Caleb casts Dancing Lights, and the tiny globules give him just enough light to see the path. They flicker like candles in the cold air and guide his way to the inn, where a figure sits on the stoop, a dusty blanket covering their form. Caleb flicks his wrist and the globules gather together to give off more light, and in the amber glow, he spots dark blue hair and horns poking out from the blanket. He rushes forward, his heart in his throat.

“Jester? What are you doing out in the cold?”

The head lifts from the bundle, and bleary purple eyes blink up at him before widening. “Cayleb!” Jester tosses the blanket off her shoulders as she jumps up and grabs him in a bone-crushing hug. She smells like lavender. “You disappeared and I thought Trent had kidnapped you and you were dead and Caleb, you can’t do that again! I was so scared!” Jester’s voice breaks as she sniffles around her words. Caleb wraps his arms around Jester and holds her closer.

“I’m so sorry, _liebling_. I didn’t mean to worry you. I was just… I had to take a walk to clear my head, that’s all.” He pulls back to hold her by the shoulders, and Jester’s eyes are glossy, her cheeks ruddy from the cold. “You didn’t have to wait outside in this cold.”

She shrugs. “I’m cold-resistant anyway.” The way she shivers betrays her. Caleb smiles and takes his scarf off to wrap it around Jester’s neck. She rolls her eyes fondly but lets him.

“You may be, but I am not. And I can’t feel my fingers. Let’s go inside, _ja_?” 

“ _Ja_ , okay.” Jester takes his hand and pulls him into the foyer of the little inn. Her hands are cold, they always are, but Caleb’s heart flips at the contact regardless. Here in the low light of the inn, the barkeep still snoring by the counter, he can see all the imperfections in Jester’s face that Astrid forgot in her visage. The smattering of freckles that extend up the bridge of her nose and hidden by her fringe, the tiny pockmarked scars from travel and battle that highlight her cheekbones. The purple flush that reaches a little too far down her cheeks to be considered flattering. The tiny flecks of red in her violet irises. The stray curls that frizz in the heat of the inn. 

All the tiny details of her face startle Caleb and leave him breathless. 

She’s perfect.

And he won’t allow himself to bring her down. He can’t. 

Jester snuggles further into Caleb’s scarf, breathing deeply. “You know, I’m not returning this tonight. That’s your punishment, Caleb.”

He chuckles and gives her a tired smile. “That seems fair.” Jester’s hand is still in his, and she rubs soothing circles along the back of his palm. 

“Are you okay? Really? We didn’t get to talk after dinner a lot, and I just want to be sure. I’m worried about you Caleb. I’m worried about you around _him_.” She squeezes his hand.

“I’ll be okay,” he clears his throat. “I am worried about Ikithon as well, but I do not think he will try to take us out just yet. We are the Mighty Nein, brokers of peace, after all. We just have to buy ourselves enough time before our next move against him.”

“What about Astrid and Eodwulf? Do you think we have to worry about them too?”

_Astrid’s breathy gasps as she tugs on his hair._

_Eodwulf’s hands tight on his hips, fingers calloused from spellwork._

_“Men die all the time.”_

Caleb swallows. “I think… we should be cautious about everyone associated with the Cerberus Assembly. Even them.” Jester chews on her bottom lip in unease, her hands wringing through Caleb’s scarf. He tries to force a smile. Anything to soothe her worries. “I do not think we need to worry about them yet, Jester. One thing at a time, _ja?_ ” She looks unconvinced but nods all the same. “It’s late, we should get some sleep.” Caleb turns towards the staircase, his hands reaching for the buttons on his coat.

Jester’s voice is small behind him. “Caleb?”

“ _Ja?_ ” he turns back around to see Jester still fiddling with the scarf, her brows knit together. 

“I don’t believe him, you know.” She looks up at him on the stairs, her eyes fixed and determined. “What Ickythong said to you, at dinner. I don’t believe that he was the reason you escaped. And I don’t think he’s the reason behind how strong you are. That magic is _yours_ , Caleb. Not his. You’re the most powerful person I know, and I’ve seen you grow into that person. Ikithong was just… he was trying to use you, trying to get you to doubt yourself.” Jester strides over to the stairs and takes Caleb’s hand in her own. “I don’t want you to doubt yourself, Caleb. And if you ever do, I want you to tell me. Because I’ve seen what you can do, and the magic you can create. And it’s wonderful. And I’ll be here to remind you if you ever forget.” 

She smiles and squeezes his hand. Caleb feels pressure like a vice around his heart, and he chokes back a sob at her words. 

He wants to kiss her. 

Instead, he squeezes her hand in return. “Thank you, Jester. You are… truly a great friend.”

Jester beams, her eyes glistening in the lamplight. “You are too. C’mon, I think we both need to cuddle some cats, _ja?_ ”

A wet laugh escapes Caleb’s throat. “ _Ja_. That would be nice.”

Jester pulls him behind her, her hand never leaving his, his scarf still wrapped around her neck. They enter the room with the large meat closet and Jester wriggles her nose at the smell. Caleb can’t help but chuckle, and Jester sticks her tongue out in his direction, before pulling him into the glowing amber doorway.

Pulling him home.


End file.
